There is a sound coming from the front of the house. I close the fridge door and am about to duck back into the basement when I realize what exactly is bothering me about the soft creak of a floorboard underneath a foot. The smell of patchouli has dissipated, so I know it’s not one of the hippies. And the activists are so loud that I can’t imagine them being stealthy in any situation . . .
Stealth, that’s what it is.
I move to the back door, but before I get there, I hear Nate on the stairs, coming up from the basement.
It’s too late now to run, or to warn him.
I grab the largest knife from the holder on the counter and am moving toward the basement door when Nate steps into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
A muffled shot rings out. Nate falls to the floor. Not in slow motion, not like in the movies. There is a muted bang and he crumples immediately. Standing behind him is a figure clad in black, hood up over his head. He is the same height as the man in my motel room, but this time I can see his face. His broken nose is taped over and his eyes are on me. He raises the gun again. In the split second I have to think, I upend the kitchen table. It falls to the floor with a loud crash. Another shot splinters the wood behind me, but I’m already out the door.
It is still dark outside, the morning light has yet to filter in. There are so many boarded-up buildings on this street to hide in, but I duck behind a pile of rubble instead. From there I dial 911 on my phone, give Nate’s address in a hushed whisper, and say a man has been shot. Come now.
Then I wait until I hear the footsteps careen past me, pause at the end of the street, and continue on.
When I get back to the house, Kev is sitting on the floor with his brother’s head on his lap. I can’t tell if Nate is alive. Tears stream down Kev’s face. Ash is on the phone with emergency services. She’s shouting that they need to hurry, none of this bullshit about neighborhood response times. Then she names a soul goddess of the city, one of the many famous singers to come out of Detroit. Do they want to be responsible for her nephew dying?
There’s so much blood.
I’m suddenly a child again, walking into a room where unspeakable brutality has been done to a man I know. A kind of sickness overtakes me. One with which I am well familiar. I need my support group, but they wouldn’t understand this. I long for Whisper, but she is someone else’s guardian angel now. I want someone to give me something to do, but everyone in the room is busy watching a human tragedy unfold. Kev hasn’t bothered to wipe his tears away. Nate doesn’t seem to be breathing.
Nobody notices me.
I walk out as quickly as I entered and wait out front for the first responders to show up. I wonder how much violence a person can reasonably handle before she goes mad, if she hasn’t already.
My fingers are curled around a knife, but I can’t remember how I came to be holding it. Am I in shock? I must be. Because I can swear that, once again, someone is trying to kill me.